Beautiful Strangers
by MustacheYouAQuestion
Summary: "How is it he's been there forever, and is still nothing more than a stranger?" Ezra Fitz is a mystery; hidden, secretive, lonely and troubled. But Aria is different; bold and determined for answers. She knows that she wants him to let her in, but even with the secrets and dangers that haunt him? There's only so much he can protect her from, himself not included. Ezria AU.
1. Chapter 1 : The Strange

**Hello lovely people!**

**This story has been on my mind for quite a while. It's probably a lot different from what I normally write, but I'm super excited to share this with you.**

**I'm going to make this full length, and I plan on treating it like a story, not just a Fanfiction. It's going to be whimsical and intense, but I can guarantee that this ride is going to be exciting. I have major plans for this, and I'm going to show you a side to Ezra Fitz you've never seen before. This is my real style of writing, and I'm already invested in this story, so I hope you like it!**

**I have the next chapter done, so I'll update when and if the response is up to par. If you like it, let me know! Reviews keep me motivated to write :)**

10 Years Ago

A little girl stood barefoot in the mud, the legs of her jeans bunched up to her knees and covered in dirt. Her hands were covered in a mixture of mud, cookie crumbs and celery-coloured stains, and were currently clutching of all things, a sticky, warty, slimy, green toad.

Aria had read in the big book that sat at the end of her bed, that frogs were magical creatures- that they were princes in disguise. The princess merely had to plant a single kiss on the head of the animal, and it would spring to life and fulfil all of her wildest dreams.

As soon as she had read those words, Aria had been tempted.

The seven-year-old smiled innocently at the toad, oblivious to both the falseness of the story, and the current mud-covered state of her body. Aria excitedly puckered her bow shaped mouth, slowly inching her head towards the toad to kiss it.

And the second before she did, the ugly green amphibian let out a loud croak and slid its way out of her grasp.

"Hey!" Aria cried, frustrated, watching sadly as the toad hopped along the ground to get back to the river. Her hands clenched into fists and her lips jutted out. Aria wanted that prince-in-disguise more than she wanted any pair of roller skates or yoyo, and so in a split decision she was suddenly chasing after it. Her bare feet slid and slipped on the slick marsh of the riverside.

From between the trees, a boy was watching.

Aria's mother had warned her always about playing by the river. The banks were slick and the river was fast- and most importantly, Aria _wasn't _good in water. However the child was excited, frustrated and dangerously determined- the only concern her mind was catching that blasted toad.

She smiled as the ugly green creature finally stopped, sitting silently on the side of the very edge of the riverbank. As carefully and as quietly as she could, Aria squat behind it.

Eyes narrowed, knees bent, Aria cautiously leaned, hands hovering over the toad. She didn't want to scare it. The mud felt awfully slick beneath her feet, and even though her body was dangerously close to falling into the rapid river, the toad was almost in her grasp.

Again, almost as if to mock her, the creature croaked, then bounced into the crashing waves of the river. At the same time, Aria's heel sunk like an anchor into the cloud of mud that made up the riverbank and her small body went forward, tumbling into the water.

It was rough- more rough than it appeared from the land, and from beneath the opalescent surface of the water Aria tumbled and twisted and pounded back-and-forth like a rag-doll. Her big hazel eyes burst open and her small arms desperately reached for the surface, but the rushing water carried her onwards, refusing to let the small, terrified child escape its raging depths.

From his place beneath the trees, the boy bounded.

There was a splash; a noisy splash, and suddenly the whitewash in the angry river tripled as something plunged through it. Aria, lips blue from lack of breath reached towards the thing pushing through the water, her only innocent fragment of hope that it was her prince coming to rescue her.

Just as the thing reached her drowning body, Aria's head made a furious collision with the bottom of the river. The last thing she saw was the iridescent glitter of the water and the last thing she remembered were the crystalline blue eyes of her prince.

1

Even though my mother can barely see, she blatantly refuses to shift her lawn chair out of the blaring trajectory of the sun rays. Brows squinted and retinas sizzling, she calls me from across the yard to request I bring her her tumbler of iced tea.

The journal in my hands is discarded and I sigh, grabbing my mothers diluted beverage from behind me on the picnic table.

"You'd really ought to think about moving," I advise, tone condescending as I pass her the drink. My mother doesn't verbally thank me, instead she shows her appreciation by swigging thirstily at her straw. "You're going to get melanoma."

Ella only laughs, brushing off my advice as if it were senseless babbling. My eyes roll without instruction at her juvenile behaviour. While she sits there in the sun, listening to the sound of her skin frying, I'm lathering on layers of sunblock and writing in the shade. It says a lot about the difference between my mother and me.

"A little sun isn't going to hurt, Aria." Ella inspects me, eyes falling disapprovingly on the skin of my milky-white bare shoulders. "And you could use a little, you're like a ghost."

I roll my eyes again. _Twice in the same minute- nice. _

Instead of perusing a cringeworthy conversation with the unfortunate woman who gave birth to me, I retreat from her lawn chair, back to the shade. Our ancient picnic table is positioned beneath the peach tree in the front yard, paint peeling and boards missing as always. Ella doesn't let me write in the tree itself anymore- she says it's about time I stopped climbing trees, and so until she gets up from her own personal tanning station, I'm contained to the table.

Still agitated, I pick up my dull stub of pencil to continue my journal entry. Just as I do, however, a noise to my left distracts me, pulling my attention from my notebook's wrinkly pages to the driveway two houses over.

Dragging a black bag of trash down the gravel-covered driveway is him. Him; that guy, that lad, that random, antisocial and very strange boy that has lived there our entire lives and has never so much as offered me the casual "hello". I am truthfully unable to coherently describe my feelings about that guy, other than the fact that he creeps me the hell out and that I see him as nothing more than a human-shaped bag of questions.

The mess of curly hair on his head is dishevelled and unruly, thick tendrils hanging into his narrowed eyes. His shoulders are wide and he's lanky, but there's noticeable build to his structure. Despite the weirdness he portrays, I'll give it to him that he's beautiful.

I wish I knew his name.

He finishes dragging the bag of garbage, and one-handedly shoves it into the aluminum trash can. His upper body curves inwards as he exhales deeply, resting his hands on the lid of the trash bin. His eyes look down at his hands, then towards the road, staring at it almost longingly.

And his head turns, those same narrowed, lonely eyes colliding directly with mine.

My chest fills with the short intake of breath I take, the gasp an instantaneous reflex to the eye contact. It's strange- a foreign feeling, but not uncomfortable. I can't help but feel guilty; no, he's never said hello, _but neither have I_.

How is it he's been there forever, and is still nothing more than a stranger?

For a fraction of a second, a piece of a broken smile tugs on the corners of his mouth, and before I can even return it he's already back-on and returning up the driveway. I'm suddenly very guilty for not smiling back. An excess of saliva in my throat forces me to gulp. I feel like something forced all the air from my lungs and then pumped them back up again.

"Aria," my mother's crooning voice brings me back into focus, and the natural aura of irk is returned. I turn to look at her sunburnt body, amazed at how she's the nerve to chide me in such a state. "You stay away from that boy, Aria. He's trouble."

My eyebrows furrow. "You don't know him, and neither do I." Why I'm being defensive, who knows.

She hesitates. "I'm not challenging you. I'm telling you." She initiates her I'm-a-parent-and-I'm-in-charge stance, pulling a T-shirt over her body. Finally, in a tone of sternness, Ella looks at me intently, but only to repeat her previous message. "Stay away from that boy, Aria. He's trouble."

My mother has a nasty habit of piquing my interest. Or maybe I have a habit of doing the opposite of what I'm told.

Either way, I have always been three things; impossibly imaginative, recklessly adventurous, and wildly curious. My brain is always running on high alert; anything sounding even remotely exciting catches my attention like the first sentence of a good book. The real bait for my biting curiosity, however, is the cute little word "don't".

"_Don't eat the jalape__ñ__os, they're too spicy_," had lead me to stuff three of those suckers into my cheeks at the shiny age of only five, and I had learnt my lesson the hard way for that mishap.

"_Don't change the channel_," had lead me to a mentally-scaring episode of _Untold Stories of the ER_ at six, and is the reason I still to this day can't so much as look at a trampoline.

"_Don't play by the river, it's dangerous_," came very, very close to leading me to death's door- and hadn't I been lucky, I would have drowned to death at seven.

I should have learnt my lesson years ago about the consequences of disobeying; but I just couldn't, and still can't help myself. "Don't" just doesn't roll with me. If she'd really wanted me to stay away, all my mother had to do was ignore the boy. I would've forgotten about him instantly, my minimal attention span fleeting onto something else. If she had merely ignored him, we wouldn't be in this mess.

My book slips from my fingers and and I don't even bother to catch it, letting it fall against the hardwood floor with a thud. The glossy paperback is too new, anyways, and you really have to break in a book before you can fall in love with it.

I wonder the boy's name. He looks like an Ethan- I don't know why, probably what I'd call him if he were a character.

_I'm an idiot._

A moment later, _Lolita _is off the floor and in my hands again, and I'm hanging off the edge of my bed, head and shoulders dangling upside down. With a drill-sergeant like attitude, I force my eyes to my page and force myself to concentrate on the words there.

_Where did I even get Lolita?_

_Why did I even get Lolita?_

It doesn't take much to lose concentration, and before I'm even aware of it, I'm daydreaming about the boy my mother resents so much again. Exasperated and irritated with myself and my involuntary persistence, I spitefully hurl my book at the other wall and head to my window. The California sun is still blazing, sun burning every creature that dares walk beneath it.

There's a tree in my back yard, one that's ridiculously overgrown, limbs twisted and protruding way out into the backyard next door- between mine and the boy's. You can climb said tree, and it gives you a perfect view of his yard...

_Aria, stop it._

I've tried my very best to stop this obsession. I have tried my whole life to not be as blatantly nosey as I am. I've never snooped for Christmas presents, I don't pick up the other receiver when my mother is on the phone (anymore), and I didn't read my mothers collection of erotic romance novels when I was twelve. (That might have because of my little tolerance for senseless plotlessness, but I still didn't.) But, something in my brain is wired the wrong way, and thus, I have zero control over the magnetic yank I have towards things that are forbidden to me. My conscience gave up years ago. When Aria gets curious, Aria is the equivalent to a demonically-possessed lemur. Once I'm in, there's no going back.

Before this week is over, I'm pretty sure that boy will go from the creepy, to the creeped.

Lip between my teeth, my fingers press against the hot glass again, my nose crinkling at the dirt I failed to wash off. I know there isn't much time until I cave, being as will-powered as a ticking time bomb.

And in a split decision, one of pure, unadulterated impulsiveness, I decide to virtually climb the tree in my back yard so I can spy on the boy two houses over. It occurs to me how easily I could inspire a Lifetime movie.

Second place on the list of things I hate, just under the word don't, falls shoes. As weird as it sounds, I can't stand them, and as soon as I reach the tree my saddle shoes are kicked to the ground and left in the grass. Using my noodle-y arms as leverage, I hoist myself into the tree, wheezing all the way until I'm securely balanced on the strongest branch. I straddle the arm, sitting on the ends of my skirt. I hadn't even bothered to change.

Like a snake, I use my arms to pull myself, belly down, along the branch. Once I've reached the end I freeze, satisfied with my perfect view of the second house over's yard. _His _yard. My mouth curls up in satisfaction. I feel like a sleuth- like Angelina Jolie in _Salt_.

It occurs to me how much I need a life.

The waiting game commences then, and despite my lengthy rest of doing nothing, I don't get bored. Instead, I take the time to inspect every detail of the boy's yard, from the withering fruit tree in the corner to the watering can without the handle, to the rusted crowbar leaning against the fence. It looks eerie and desolate- like there hasn't been a trace of joy out there for quite some time. The grass is neglected, the fence in need of a layer of stain; maybe his mother is a single parent like mine, and simply doesn't have the means of yard maintenance.

His house is composed of brick and siding, the dull blue colour stained and faded with age. The windows are piled up with mounds of stuff behind them, only I can't make out with what. On the second story, there is one big bay window, the glass contrasted and darkened by the shadows and the glare. I pull my head up, cramming my neck for a better view. The tree groans in protest.

I can't make out much, only what appears to be stacks of books. The stacks are both high and wide, and for a moment I wonder if there are more books there than in my room, and I'm not sure if that possibility threatens or impresses me. I tilt my head a little further to the right, and nearly gasp- the book on the top of the stack has the same white spine as my copy of _Lolita_, and I was pretty sure no one else dared read it.

Curiosity tugs me forward again, and I lean even farther out on the branch. A loud creak booms a warning, but I don't even notice- I'm too wrapped up in the books in the window. In fact, I'm almost too wrapped up in said damned stack of books to notice the curly headed figure heading out of the back door.

The branch creaks again- and then a loud snap jostles me from my focus. The tree slowly but surely begins to tilt, my weight dragging down its main support system, and in horror I realize that I'm stuck- I can't get to the trunk of the tree without breaking the branch I'm on.

I'm trapped in a collapsing tree, ten feet off the ground.

"Mom?!" My hands reach up for one of the smaller branches above my head, frantic for something to grab a hold of. However, much to my misfortune, any of the arms that have the strength to hold me are out of reach. A twitching in my chest alerts me of just how fast my heart pounds- and as if she could possibly hear me, I wail out for my mother again.

From the next yard over, the curly haired boy spies me in the tree.

"Mom, _help_!"

My gaze lands on him just as he sprints toward me, big eyes bugging out of his head. As if the task were nothing difficult, the boy runs straight for and climbs over the fence, as if he has the same agility as Spider-Man. The tree groans again, and a set of panic-induced tears well in my eyes.

He stands directly below me now, under the tree, chest heaving in an attempt to recover from the sprint.

In a voice I wasn't aware existed, the boy holds out his arms. "The branch is going to snap. Lower yourself down."

"I can't!" I look down at the ridiculous drop from up here to the ground. I'm barely five feet- I can't land without a broken back. "I can't reach."

"You have to! Just slowly get down- I won't let you fall." He looks petrified, but at the same time prepared to catch me. The muscles that make up his arms fill me with a little reassurance.

As slowly and as carefully as possible, I swing my leg over the branch. Inch by inch, I lower myself out of the branch, heartbeat whizzing harder and faster with every second that passes. Once I'm dangling, the boy lines his arms with my waist.

"Let go," he whispers, gritting his teeth at the tension in the tree. "I've got you."

Throat essentially blocked off, I clench my eyes and let go of the tree. Heart lodged in my throat, I'm convinced I'm dead until I feel a firm grip holding my waist, and a second later, my bare feet are back on the grass.

_He caught me._

"You _caught _me," I open my eyes to find myself less then an inch away from the guy's chest, and I awkwardly take a step back. "How in _Christ's name _did you catch me?"

"You're the size of a kitten," from this close up, a can properly judge the guy's appearance. His jawline is perfect, covered in a thin smattering of stubble. He looks about twenty- and looks even better up close. "You weren't that hard to catch."

My breathing is still uneven, and for a moment I just stand there, trying to relax again. He watches me cautiously, intensely, eyes filled with compassion.

"Are you okay?" He asks softly, raising his eyebrows.

"I will be. Thank you," I find his eyes again and blink. "Thank you."

"What were you even doing in that tree?" A worried crease forms along his forehead.

"I was-" my head suddenly blanks and I panic, desperate for an excuse. I can't exactly say I was spying on you. "Looking for squirrels."

_Way to go, Aria. _I feel like stabbing myself in the face with a fence post.

"I mean," I offer a slight chuckle, attempting to play my blunder off cooly. "I left a squirrel feeder up there and I was trying to get it."

He nods. "Just don't try to climb that thing again, alright? You might not be as lucky next time."

I shake my head, letting out an uneven breath. "Thank you, again-"

"Ezra," he replies softly, before offering me a slight smile. "I'm Ezra."

His voice is a melodious mix between bells and satin. My throat constricts, and I realize for the first time the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. A blush covers my face.

"Thanks Ezra," I break away from his eyes sheepishly, glancing at the gate to my neighbours backyard. I doubt Mrs. Rosenthal will be very happy to have two hooligans traipsing about her tomatoes.

"You're welcome," he offers me one last heart-squatting grin- the kind of smile that is crooked and straight-toothed and makes me want to drop my panties right here, right now. And then he walks away, heading straight for his fence, as if there wasn't a gate twelve feet away. Mouth slightly ajar, I watch the unorthodox _rippling _of his biceps as he hops the fence once again, and disappears.

_Ezra_.


	2. Chapter 2 : Let Me Sign

**Okay first things first, thank you all so much for the overwhelming support you gave me last chapter. I have never had that kind of reaction over a story, and the fact so many of you reviewed, tweeted me and even PM'd me- I don't even know how to say thank you.**

**I have planned on doing weekly updates, so I write one chapter ahead of schedule. I'm going to try to stick with this system so you won't have to wait long for updates. **

**As of right now, the story is going to start moving. The plot is NOT dragged out, and this is not going to be a typical story- pretty soon it's going to get pretty crazy, and you're going to see a side to Ezria you haven't ever before. I think you're going to like it. A lot.**

**Thanks again so much, I'm not going to lie when I say that I cried. It makes me love writing, it really does. Keep it coming, it'll get you your chapters because I'll be motivated to write them.**

2

_Standing there by the broken tree,_

_Her hands were all twisted, she was pointing at me._

Of all things, my mother shares only one similarity with me. As unwilling as we are to admit it, a rampant caffeine dependency hovers over our heads like a dark looming cloud of smog, and regardless of how little tolerance we have for each other, there is always an agreement to be made in terms of coffee.

My pastel-blue mug sits in front of me, a soft wisp of steam rising up into my face. I stare at it greedily, ready for the artificial boost of energy I'm desperately in need of. Ella sets down two bottles of flavoured creamer as well as the sugar dish, and we quietly prepare our coffees, having nothing to talk about. I yawn intensely, craving nothing more than a nice long nap.

As pathetic as it sounds, my nights for the past three days have been filled with nothing other than thoughts of _Ezra_. Okay, that sounds pretty bad, and I don't mean it in an inappropriate context. I just can't stop replaying my encounter with him over and over in my head. The whole things felt surreal; it was confusing and a little frightening that he could go so long without ever acknowledging my presence, and then casually hop the fence to come to my rescue. The whole thing was completely unbelievable, and because of the lack of answers, my drive for answers is on an all-time high.

Social media provided me with absolutely nothing. There were no profiles that could possibly match an _Ezra _on Facebook, twitter, or even MySpace. The search had been infuriating, and as if to spite me, had come up bone dry.

I decided last night to resort to my last option- I would have to have a beauty parlour gossip session with my mother.

Ella-Aria bonding time is something that's gone from unfrequented, to nonexistent. There's always been a sort of wedge between my mother and me; our differences are so wide that there is virtually no room for common ground. In all reality, Ella is my polar opposite. She's naïve, scatterbrained and slightly superficial, and most certainly not willing to let anyone stand in her way. Ella is also the most stubborn person I've ever encountered- even more stubborn than me, and it's indescribably frustrating to even associate with her. The thing that bothers me the most, above all else, is how very wrapped up she is in foolish things- she believes every word of gossip she hears, regardless of who she's hearing it from, and the slightest bit of sense from my mouth becomes irrelevant if she doesn't agree with it. I don't have tolerance for her. And I'm not sure if that's sad.

She takes the hazelnut creamer and squeezes it into her cup of coffee, oblivious to my heavy gaze on her face. It's hard to tell when my mother is in a bad mood or not, because she normally always looks the same. Today she seems a little more pleasant than she normally does, and I plan on taking this opportunity to weasel out the information I want.

"How was your haircut the other day?" It's never good to just spring on a spiel of questions out of the blue, you really have to ease your way around the topic at first, just to avoid suspicion.

Ella looks at me funny. But then again, when was the last time I showed any interest in my mother's haircuts?

"It was fine," she takes a generous sip of her coffee, ignoring the piping hot temperature. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug my shoulders as nonchalantly as possible. "I was just wondering, you normally have a backload of stories to tell after you get your hair done."

She looks at me even funnier. I realize I'm failing drastically in the casual-conversation department. When have I ever cared about my mother's stories?

"I'm just in the mood for some dirt." I sip my coffee, stomach fizzling with the hatred I have for my mother.

"Well," and then she starts, regardless of how weird my persona is today. She rambles on about everyone in town, from Joshua the mechanic and Casanova, to Amber the two-faced grocer, to Betty the woman who remarried after divorce in two months and claimed she didn't have an affair. Honestly, I feel disappointed that she takes such pleasure in trash talking other people. There has to be better things in life than that.

After listening for ten minutes, my coffee runs out, and with it, my patience.

"What about that that boy you said about yesterday," I scratch at my neck. "What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into?"

Ella's spoon clinks against the table. She holds onto her mug and glares at me.

"_Really_, Aria?" Her eyebrows are raised as high as they can be.

"What?!"

"Stop thinking about him. I told you to stay away."

"I'm not _interested _in him, mom." _Lie_. "I just want to know what kind of person we are living close to. Is he really that bad?" _Liar, liar pants on fire._

Ella sighs. "I'm not an idiot. And you might not like me, but I raised you and I'm not clueless."

"Think about it this way," I challenge, elbows on the table and brow furrowed. "If you don't tell me, I'm going to go looking. This can go your way or my way."

Ella sighs again and I try and restrain the grin on my face. I take joy in making parenting difficult.

"Ezra Ftiz is trouble. He's extremely light-fingered, if you know what I mean, and he's extremely violent. " I wish my mother was aware of other adjectives than extremely. "Shopkeepers don't like him in there stores because he's quick and hard to stop."

I regard her suspiciously, because in actuality, it doesn't make sense. A troubled, violent boy like that would not have saved me from a collapsing tree. I saw the panic in his eyes, and I saw the compassion as well. It doesn't fit.

Ella continues. "He's remorseless, Aria. Boys like him should be locked up and kept away from the public. I don't want you near him, and if you let him as far as spitting distance of this house," she grits her teeth as she thinks of a way to punish me. She comes up empty. "You'll regret it."

_Game on, momma. _

...

I am famous for impulsively making stupid decisions.

Why I'd thought this choice was even remotely a good one, I'll probably never know. But of course, I only realize how stupid, _stupid _this is _after _I knock.

As soon as my mother left the house for work that morning, I had been hit with this seemingly brilliant epiphany. What better way to talk to Ezra again by thanking him? And not just a hand shake and a "thanks dude, 'preciate it", but with _muffins_?!

And so yes, I, Aria Marie Montgomery, the shining pinnacle of judgement, stood in my kitchen and baked Ezra Fitz a batch of blueberry muffins as a way to say "thanks". And not once did it occur to me just how utterly stupid it was.

In one of my arms is my cursed basket of muffins, the other is squeezed into a fist and dangles at my side. I can't believe I actually knocked, and that I am actually standing here, holding a god damned basket of muffins. I let a shallow breath escape my lungs, hoping no one is home.

However, I'm not that lucky.

A set of light footsteps flutter behind the door, along with a quick rambling of speech. I fight the urge to press my ear to the door and listen into what they're saying.

Suddenly, the door whips open, catching me completely off guard.

There's a girl standing there, eyes narrowed as she stares at me resentfully. Her hair is light blonde, eyes a bright pastel blue. She really pretty, but doesn't dress that way. Her clothes are dark and mismatched, and you can tell she hadn't put a great deal of thought into them.

"And who are you?" She shakes her head, implying that I'd better answer.

"Hi, I'm Aria, Aria Montgomery. I live two houses down."

The girl blinks.

"I'm here to see- I'm here to see Ezra."

She looks at me like I'm some sort of rodent, before turning around in the doorframe. "Ezra, door." She kicks a shoe out of her way. I get the feeling she kicks a nice amount of things, not just shoes.

Rocking on my heels, I watch as she disappears back into the house. The porch is cut off from the rest of house by a set of streaky window-doors, and the walls are painted an ugly terracotta colour. Shoes litter the floor, going from heels to sneakers to boots. It's an odd combination. I wonder how many people live here- I've never noticed anyone but Ezra- and there's inevitably more than that.

There's a long silence, and for a moment I debate turning around and running home, locking myself in my closet and not coming out ever again.

Before I can do so, however, then glass doors open and there's someone else in front of me. It's Ezra, and he looks tired. And not pleased to see me.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, voice hushed. He motions for me to step back, and then steps out of the porch, shutting the front door behind him. Warily glancing over his shoulder at the dirty front windows, Ezra lowers his head. "Look, I'm not coming from some rude, antisocial place, okay? But you shouldn't be here, Aria."

I'm taken slightly aback. Not because of his warning, but because he knows my name.

_I've never told him my name._

"I was just coming to say thank you, for the other day." I hold up my muffins, he looks confused. I don't blame him, honestly. "I could have gotten hurt, and that shouldn't go unnoticed."

He doesn't take the muffins. Instead, he stares at them, then back at me. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry if I interrupted something," I widen my eyes, trying to look as guilty as possible. Maybe he'll bite the bait. "I hope you weren't doing anything important."

Ezra's eyes fill with some kind of emotion, but whatever it is, it proves to me that he definitely isn't _remorseless_. That illogical statement my mother made is shot down instantly. "You didn't." He pauses before continuing. "It's complicated, Aria. Being here isn't good for anyone. Just- forget you came here, okay?" Out of what I figure is courtesy, he reaches for the muffins, and for a moment, our fingers brush. Instead of freezing like me, and feeling the rush of sparks that suddenly flood my nervous system, Ezra whips his hand away quicker than lightning. The muffins tumble from my basket and onto the ground.

He looks up and rambles an apology, before dropping down and gathering them.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, realizing the baked goods are now useless, inedible and covered in gravel.

I don't say anything in return. I don't have words.

I set the basket down onto the step, before slowly turning away from him. A rush of swelling rejection fills my chest, stealing my breath. I didn't mean to bother him.

Curiosity killed the cat. _Oh fuck off, subconscious. _

Before I'm halfway down the driveway, Ezra's velvet voice stops me from moving any further.

"Aria?" he calls softly, hopefully.

I look back at him.

"What's the real reason you came?"

I bite my lip, thinking of something to say. Something that won't embarrass me any further.

With narrowed eyes, a wave of anger rushes over me. "I came to tell you that I don't believe any of the things they say."

The guilt on his face multiplies. "I appreciate that." Even though his actions portray just the opposite, Ezra looks sincere.

...

I hate men.

Maybe I'm biased, seeing as how all the men who have ever made an appearance in my seventeen years have been awful-evil-repulsive-harrowing-assholes. My father, for instance.

I was two when he left my mother and me. I barely understood the world as it was, and one ordinary sunday I had to figure out why my father wasn't home anymore. That morning, the man who always fed me Cheerios was gone; had taken off to Paris with one of his graduates.

My mother dated, yes, but I hated every single one of the bastards that she brought home. There was Derek, who I remember most prominently. He was nothing short of a meat-headed douche bag, and even though my mother will never, ever admit it, he was a carbon copy of my father. Same obsession with literature, same light brown hair, same flighty, inconsistent personality. I think it was me who scared him off after three months. I developed a habit of glaring at him, and whenever he was around, if didn't talk.

My father sends me letters and a new book every six months, but other than that we have no contact. He stopped calling when I was none, solely because I refused to talk to him, and even though the letters still come, my father's voice within the words has become more and more distant. I rarely read the letters; I don't care how his life is going with Meredith. I resent the fact that my hobby of writing comes from the man I call my father.

My father's newest letter, along with a shiny first edition of _Wuthering Heights _arrived this evening, and now sits at the foot of my bed. I hate _Wuthering Heights_. And yet Byron Montgomery has sent it to me twice already.

I throw the unopened letter onto the floor, pushing a frustrated hand through my straggly dark hair. Byron's letters always add another layer of anxiety to my life. I hate being obligated to read things.

I decide to be a Good Samaritan, and reluctantly pick the letter up off the floor again- but it's now that I realize there isn't just one letter, there's _two_.

One is unmistakably my fathers; I know just by the stamps, but the one stuck to the back is smaller and thinner, stuck to my fathers by a smear of envelope glue. I pull them apart, checking the second, smaller letter for markings. There aren't any though, only a blank white paper envelope.

Cautiously, as if it might blow up or something, I tear open the envelope. There's a torn sheet of notebook paper inside.

_I wish I could explain things to you. I didn't mean to be an ass. -Ezra _

The paralysis that follows my shock is uncanny. I physically can't move for at least a minute, my eyes roving over the two sentences again and again. I don't know how or when he put it in the mailbox, and most importantly _why_. Why would he feel the need to make an apology? What is there to explain?

Like an electrical surge, two-hundred questions spiral out of control in my mind all at once. Why did he change personalities so fast? How was it he went from rescuer, to rejector, to mysterious angel in a matter of days?

Maybe this had to do with my obscene curiosity, but Ezra Fitz is making my brain hurt. Heaving out a deep breath, I decide to just go for a walk to try and clear my head.

The woods behind my house are old and beautiful, the flora lush and the wildlife booming. I used to spend my days in these woods, playing in the trees and catching butterflies. Even to this day I love nothing more then taking a picnic blanket and book to the middle of the woods. Here, it's silent and lovely. You can lose yourself entirely, allow yourself to delve inside the words of your book. Pure euphoria.

The steamy air is warm and sticky, and I run my fingers along the bark of the trees I pass. A soft chirping over my head brings a smile to my mouth, I love the sound of birds in the sky. The earth is warm, damp and soft beneath the bare soles of my feet, and I wish I could sit down on it. But if I get mud on my skirt, my mother will know I've been out here, and there are some battles I'm willing to avoid.

I wander a little further, until I've ended up where I always do. A set of goosebumps prickle my arms, and my breathing grows laboured at the sound of the rushing water of the river. I squeeze my hands into fists and close my eyes, letting my senses fill with tantalizing fear.

Ten years ago, I almost drowned in this river.

When I was seven, I came here one day in search of a toad- don't ask me why, I honestly wouldn't know what to tell you. I ended up catching one, anyways, and it got away, and I chased it right into the river. I don't know much else about what happened, only that I miraculously was pulled out by someone, someone who still to this day has not identified themselves. It was a miracle that I survived, and there isn't a day that goes by I don't thank my lucky stars.

Coming back to the riverbank is similar to the game of "chicken". Standing here, being totally afraid makes me feel _electric_. My nerves are running on the highest point of stimulus, and I am in total connection with my thoughts. I write best when I'm afraid- my brain and senses are at their highest point of function.

I close my eyes again, and picture Ezra.

The messy, silky texture of his thick black curls. His perfect jaw, and the light stubble that covers it. The tight, cut muscles in his arms. The way he caught me out of the tree with such ease. The glittery blue colour of his eyes.

And like a heartbeat, an epiphany with enough power to knock me off my feet occurs, hitching my breath and alluring me into a state of fearful remembrance. Darkness, pain, immobility, it all comes crashing back, bringing me again to that foul day I spilt into the river.

There was the foul flavour of seawater that filled my mouth as I cried out, the pain of my crippled limbs as I twisted and tumbled about the water, there was the stinging of my eyes and the burning of my skin from the cold- I couldn't breathe. The water was weighing my chest down and I couldn't escape it.

Whitewash- more than usual, spraying towards me. I couldn't hold my breath much longer, if at all. My lips felt tight and my chest hurt. More whitewash, something bigger than me, coming towards me. Was it a person? A fish? I couldn't tell, everything far too fuzzy to move. I couldn't see anymore, too dark, only a glittery set of blue eyes.

And finally the blinding pain of my skull crashing into the earth.

_No_.

My body freezes in yet another state of paralysis. Those eyes, those blurry, fading eyes were still as blue and as big and as beautiful as Ezra's. They _were _Ezra's, there isn't even the slightest amount of doubt.

But _how_? My head spins with a thousand additional questions and my heart thumps rhythmically in time.

Ezra Fitz saved me from drowning ten years ago. How, why, and where, I don't have any idea.

My mouth tightens into a tight line. With directed eyes fixated on the river supposed to be my death bed, I decide there's only one way to find out what happened to us.

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3 : Lose My Mind

**I'm sorry this chapter took so damn long to post, I've had it completed for a while, but I just had no time to post it. **

**Thank you so much for the support with this, your reviews are so kind and make this worthwhile. This story may seem a little slow moving, but from here on in it's about to…**_**really **_**pick up. Chapter four is intense. **

**Without further adieu, here is chapter 3. Enjoy and please review, I want to know what you guys think!**

3

Lividly, impulsively, and unstoppably, I break out into a run away from the river. There's a thin coating of nervous sweat beading on my temples and my hands are clenched into tight fists, fingernails leaving imprints in the skin.

_How could this even be happening?!_

I'm confused about so many different aspects of this situation; even though I doubt my memory is failing me, I really can't be sure if Ezra really was the one to have saved me- I was seven years old and drowning. The memory has to have been diluted and distorted. But those eyes; they're so clearly Ezra's.

But say it was Ezra who saved me, how? He couldn't have been much older than me, how would he have seen me and had the sense to jump in and pull me out? And, probably the oddest link to this equation, _why had he never come forward_?!My mother spent years searching for the person who saved my life, but no matter how much she pleaded, the true hero never owned up. It has bothered us for years and it's infuriating and a little satisfying that it is Ezra Fitz, the stranger who's been in my life forever.

I push a frustrated hand through my hair, slowing down my run slightly as I come near to the edge of the woods. How am I supposed to find the truth if Ezra wants to play wounded and mysterious? Why do I care so much about this _stupid guy_?!

I stand at the forest's edge for a few minutes, feet a quarter inch deep in the marshy earth. A part of me doesn't want to go home, wants to stay here and not have to deal with anything anymore. For a person who doesn't do much, my life is certainly a mess of complications.

A little bit later, I smooth my skirt and sigh, slipping back into the flip flops I left on my favourite tree trunk. The woods connect right into my backyard, and from here I can make out the windows of my home. My mother sits in the big bay window in the dining room, gabbing away on the phone to god-knows-who, hair in a loose ponytail and cheeks slightly pink. My mother is undoubtedly beautiful, there is no mistaking that. There are times I wish we had a better relationship. There are times I wish she liked me.

I let myself into my house through my back door, wiping my muddy feet on the welcome mat. Through the open concept kitchen I hope I can get past my mother without her noticing my messy appearance, but my hopes are crushed by the sound of her annoying voice.

"Aria," she says, but not condescendingly or warningly like usual. Her voice is gentle. I barely recognize it.

"Mm," I turn to look at her. She forces a smile.

"I'm-" she hesitates, and I knit my eyebrows in confusion. My initial thought is that someone is dead. "Never mind. It's no big deal. Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk," my eyes glance nervously to my skirt, where a smear of mud sits near the edge. "I was trying to think."

"About what?" She asks absentmindedly, fooling with a knob on the fabric of her sweater.

"Mom, what happened the night I almost drowned?"

Ella looks up at me and gulps, eyes glazing with moisture as she thinks about the atrocious event ten years ago. We don't like talking about it, and so I don't normally ask, but this time I know I have to.

"Aria, you know what happened." My mother stands up, flicking her magazine onto the window seat.

Cosmopolitan. Classy.

"I want the full story."

Ella sighs as if I'm asking her for something as ridiculous as a kidney, sitting back down on the window seat. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers, motioning for me to sit down beside her on the bench.

After a moment, she begins.

"You were seven when it happened, and I remember that you were angry at me because you didn't like Everett."

Everett had been bachelor number four. But as it turned out, he hadn't been much of a bachelor.

"You were reading something in the fairytale book in your room and the next minute you had taken off. I figured you were on your swing in the backyard or something, and so I didn't worry. I was angry with you for being so difficult, and so I thought the separation would be good for a little while.

"As hour passed and I got worried, thinking you were afraid to come back into the house. I started thinking about Everett and how much you didn't like him, and I decided to find you so we could have a talk about him and what I could do to ease you into a new man in our life. But you weren't in the backyard. Or in your room, or in the cellar. I couldn't find you, Aria, and I panicked. I though you ran away, and knowing you, I didn't think you would have come home.

"I stayed in to call the police and Everett went to search for you in the woods. I went into the house to stay by the phone for word on your whereabouts. It never rang, but after a while there was a knock at the door instead.

"You were dripping wet and laying on the porch steps, totally unconscious. You were breathing, but it wasn't hard to tell it was hard for you to. There was no one around- at first I thought you had ran home and fainted, but then I realized you had fallen into some body of water, and I knew you couldn't swim-" Ella let's out a shaky breath, and I gnaw at my lip. It _is _a pretty horrifying story, no wonder she doesn't like to tell it. As much as my mother doesn't like me, I assume she _has_ to love me. It's a parent thing, isn't it?

"I took you to the hospital, and they told me you had almost drowned. Your head had hit a rock really hard, but you were lucky enough to have suffered only a mild concussion. No lasting damage. There was fluid in your lungs, but other than that, you were fine a week later.

"When you woke up, you we couldn't get you to talk to anyone. The doctors said it was due to trauma and shock, and it took two days and fourfold your favourite chicken pot-pies to get you to speak. When you finally did speak, you told me you'd been playing by the river, something about a toad, and how you had fallen in. I asked how you had gotten out- and you didn't know.

"Aria, we literally had no idea who pulled you out of that river. You didn't know, we didn't know, no one had come forward- we were completely and utterly baffled as to who would be such a hero and not take any credit for it. It wasn't until a year later that I got a note in the mailbox." My eyebrows knit together furiously. A note in the mailbox sounds very familiar.

_It can't be_.

My mother stands up and walks toward the kitchen, leaving me sitting there anxiously. She pads over to the breadbox and opens it, her hand reaching inside and sliding along the underside of the top. She withdrawals her hand, a piece of paper with it. _How did I not find that? How had my mother come up with such a good hiding spot?_

_It's a piece of ripped notebook paper._

She unfolds it carefully, the old paper delicate and fragile after years of being stored. "_I rescued your daughter, but it doesn't matter who I am_," she reads softly, then looks up at me. "I never heard from them again."

Breathlessly, I look at the wrinkled note her hands. The penmanship is much messier than the handwriting on my note, but there are the same curly features and blots of ink at the end of the letters- the penmanship is Ezra's, but perhaps from an earlier Ezra. My heart drops. _I was right. _

"Mom," I gasp softly, the first thing I've said in a while. Without hesitation, I grab the note out of her hands and barrel off to my bedroom.

"Aria!" She cries, and I know there'll be hell to pay later for being so hostile.

My feet pound the carpet covered stairs, down the hardwood hallway and through the threshold to my bedroom. I lock my chain and snatch up my desk chair, tucking it securely beneath the doorknob. Then, exasperated, I lay both of the notes side by side on my bed.

They're a seamless match, not even the slightest doubt they're not from the some person.

Ezra Fitz _was_ the boy who saved my life.

I'm not sure if I feel angry or thrilled about it, and before I know what I'm doing, a pen is in my hands and I'm scribbling on my own piece of notebook paper. Using the elastic around my wrist, I pile my hair and tie it into a high knot on the top of my head.

For the next hour I'm pacing my room, chewing any remaining fragments of fingernails clear off my hands. I'm going to talk to him, and I don't care how much I "shouldn't be there". He has some _major_ explaining to do, and I'm not leaving until he does.

It's eight by the time I'm finished neurotically pacing, the sun beginning to set like an egg yolk in the sky. It's probably still warm, but I pull a purple cardigan over my shoulders and reluctantly step into my white Mary Janes. I hate them. They're ugly.

Glancing at my reflection quickly in the mirror, I apply a thin layer of pink lip balm. If I'm going to be a bitch, I might as well look appealing, right?

My mother is gone when I finally find my way downstairs. There is a note sitting on the table for me. Is this supposed to be a theme or something?

Taking one last breath, I storm my way through my front door, down the driveway and along the sidewalk. However, the closer his house becomes, the more nonexistent my confidence becomes. His step is the same, the door the same, but this time I'm not armed with my stupid muffins- I'm just here with a goal and an attitude. This time, I'm possibly expecting too much.

My fist hovers over the door for about a minute and a half. It's comical, I would imagine, to see me in the position in which I am currently frozen. But as long as I stand there, I can't move. I can't knock, I can't do it.

Suddenly, a hushed, abrupt call of my name, mixed with my completely-paranoid libido causes me to jump about half a foot back. I gasp so loud it's embarrassing. Hand clutched to my chest, I look around to find the thing that called me, and little to my aid I find Ezra coming through the gate to his backyard. He looks surprised to see me. But not in a pleasant way.

"I'm sorry, " he says softly, glancing around the front of his house nervously. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Still trying to catch my breath, I nod, cheeks red from my rather dramatic reaction.

"What are you doing here?" he asks next, keeping his distance. I raise my eyebrows at his boldness. "Aria, I meant what I said."

"No," my voice is as stern as steel. "No, you owe me many explanations, Ezra, and I'm not leaving until I get the answers I'm entitled to."

He sighs, running his hand over his face and through his hair. "Why don't we take a walk, and you can ask me whatever you need to."

I let out a disgruntled breath. "Whatever floats your boat."

He motions for me to follow him, and we make our way down the driveway. He remains a fair space away from me at all times, and I can't help but feel self-conscious. Am I really _that_ repulsive?

We walk all the way to the end of our street without a word, until Ezra finally stops in his tracts. "Do you know your way around these woods?"

I snort. "That's like asking me if I know my house's floor plan."

"Are you okay with walking in the woods with _me_?"

I look at him cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," I follow him slowly into the woods, revelling in the safety that comes with walking beneath the protective canopy of the trees. My Mary Janes are going to be ruined. Yippee.

"I'm assuming you got my note," he asks softly, turning slightly to look at me. Those blue eyes are unmistakable.

"Yeah," I mumble, stopping. "I got both of them, actually."

The colour drains from Ezra's handsome face. He doesn't say anything. I shake my head.

"You didn't think anyone would figure it out?"

Again, he doesn't say anything.

"Ezra, you saved my life. Twice!" He winces at the volume of my voice. "And still, you refuse to even let me come near your house to thank you."

He let's out a long breath. "I already told you, Aria, there's no need for you to thank me."

"Well I want to know what happened." My voice is childishly whiney and I feel like stomping my foot.

Ezra looks at me sincerely in the eyes, and I try my best to stay angry, even with the way his eyelashes cast legitimate shadows down his cheeks. _He's so beautiful I want to sob._

"I'll explain your questions to the best of my abilities. But I'm not guaranteeing you a life story." Satisfied with that, I nod my head.

"Tell me about the first time you saved me." I smooth my skirt and take a seat on one of the less-grubby tree trunks around us. Ezra continues to stand, ruffling his messy hair.

"Well, of what I can remember, I was ten years old. I liked the woods, and I liked the river. I considered it my own, personal regime and I always assumed I was obligated to protect it." Ezra smirks a little bit. "And then along came you one day, a _girl,_" he wrinkles his nose as if cooties still existed, "and I guess I chose to protect you too."

"I was chasing a frog," I offer, signalling for him to continue.

"Yes you were. And you weren't being careful. At first, I assumed you knew what you were doing. But you didn't."

"And so I fell in, and you had that instinct to just jump in and pull me out?"

"No," he clicks his teeth together. "At first I thought you could swim. But you couldn't, and I panicked. Once you were down for so long I realized that I couldn't leave you to _die. _I could swim, and so I jumped in and pulled you out.

"You hit your head, so you weren't breathing, and there was water coming out of your mouth. I'd seen in some movie that you get babies to breathe by smacking them on the back, and so I started hitting you. Water came out of your mouth, and you started breathing. You didn't wake up though, and I knew I had to bring you home."

"How did you know who I was?"

"You were Aria," he answers simply. "You were the only girl I'd ever seen who wasn't afraid of toads."

My heart flutters at the grin on his face. Was that a compliment, in some ridiculous way..?

"I carried you home and put you on your step. Then I rang the bell and ran home to hide."

"Why?!"

Ezra pulls his eyes from mine and tenses.

"It didn't matter _who_ saved you. I didn't want the attention, and I knew if people started coming around me and asking questions they'd-" Ezra freezes. "Aria, my life is nothing but a sequence of complications. When I was a kid, being dubbed a 'hero' in the public eye was probably the worst thing that could have happened to me. I saved your life, yes, but to see you walking around and _breathing_ again," he pauses, sounding alarmed by his own words. "That was enough of an award for me."

A lump forms in my throat. I'm truly at a loss for words.

"Look, Aria, I don't mean to constantly push you away. I don't want to have to exile you from my life." Ezra paces around the forest floor, a habit I'm familiar with. "But please try and trust me when I say it's in _everyone's_ best interest."

"Why?" I ask too quickly, suddenly feeling shy for my bold outburst. Sheepishly, I ask again in a quieter voice, "what's so entirely wrong in your life that I can't help you with?"

Ezra sounds broken, the next time he speaks. "Everything. And I'd really rather not drag you into it."

Before I can even make a whisper of a protest, Ezra looks at me with the most hauntingly beautiful emotion I have ever seen. "Please, just stay away from me, Aria. I'm sorry it has to be like this, but you need to forget this conversation even happened. Go live your life- you _don't_ want to be wrapped up in mine." Without another word, Ezra Fitz turns on his heel and begins to walk, leaving me sitting there alone in the middle of the woods. I'm too stunned to move, and I have virtually nothing left to think.

Maybe it _is _best I stay away from Ezra, but I know it isn't possible. I know that no matter how hard I try, I'm not going to be able to stay away from him.

Because when have I ever been able to resist the word _don't_?

**Review. Please. They make me happy.**

Beautiful strangers 7


	4. Chapter 4 : The Night

**I don't really have anything much to say about this chapter but hold on tight. (And thank you so so so so much for the reviews. You're the best readers ever.)**

4

_All the people of the town cast their eyes right to the ground_

_In matters of the heart_

I've been five days Ezra Fitz free.

While it's done virtually nothing but drive me insane, staying away from Ezra has improved the situation a great deal- my new tactic has not only alleviated some of the Ezra-driven anxiety from my shoulders, but has also, to my surprise, piqued his interest in me.

I've seen him three times in the last few days, and each time, I've given him nothing but the cold shoulder. While yes, from it I've developed a legitimate twitch, but each time I refuse to meet his eye contact or blatantly ignore him he looks both confused and disappointed.

Perhaps he wants me to chase him; but I'm no ones predator.

The first time I saw him, I was writing under my tree, and he was again bringing out the garbage. He spotted me almost too quickly, and I noticed- and refused to look at him. He stood there for a moment or two, waiting for me to turn and smile, wave or acknowledge him- but I didn't. And it bugged him.

The second time I was walking home from the corner mart, licking a vanilla soft serve and shuffling the scattered pebbles along the sidewalk. He was coming the opposite way, carrying for some reason, an empty gasoline can.

I walked past him as if he were nothing more than a shadow. It had been devilishly satisfying, and I'd returned home with a soggy cone and a bubbly pride.

The third time was probably my favourite encounter, and that's probably because by the third time Ezra had come around I'd mastered the art of ignoring him. I had been driving, pulling into the driveway after a successful shopping trip at the grocery store, and down the road comes Ezra, carrying that same ridiculous empty gasoline can.

I hadn't seen him until the very last second, and came within four inches of plowing him down with my mother's car. Even though he'd stumbled backwards a good three feet, I'd nonchalantly climbed out of the car and carried the grocery bags into my house, completely ignoring his presence.

Maybe that one had been a tad out of hand.

Regardless, the lack of Ezra in my life has allowed me to focus on other things. I've finished _Lolita, dear Christ_, as well as ridden my mother all suspicions of my interest in the Fitz boy.

But now, I'm bored again. And as you might have already figured out, boredom doesn't sit well with yours truly.

Ms. Pinty's, a cute, cozy, homestyle little diner sits quietly about ten minutes from my home. It's dated and tired, the staff all well past forty, but Ms. Pinty's diner is the most comfortable place this earth has to offer.

When I was a kid, my mother brought me there every Thursday night for turkey soup and ice cream sundaes, her attempt at maintaining some sort of daughter-mother bond. It was something I used to love; Ms. Pinty's soup is the most delicious thing you will ever eat, and who was I ever to refuse an ice cream sundae?

My summer afternoons are long and lonely, my mother spending her hours behind a desk somewhere in town. My best friend Steph is studying somewhere in Iceland, the rest of my school friends had forgotten about me the very day school ended. The lack of companionship gets overwhelming some days, like today, and for nothing more than a change in scenery I decide to visit Ms. Pinty's for lunch.

Ms. Pinty almost shrieks when she sees me enter, chiding me for not visiting in so long and telling me how _beautiful_ I've gotten. Her sweet words bring a blush to the surface of my cheeks, and I passively dismiss them, letting her guide me to a doily-covered table in the back. It's the table where I used to sit with Ella- only this this time, it's only set for one.

"Actually, could I sit up by the counter?" I'd rather be there, not wanting to be the awkward loner at a table in the back.

Ms. Pinty smiles, trying to hide her confusion. She smooths her green uniform. "Of course you can. Can I bring you the usual?"

This time, it's my turn to smile. "Yeah, that'd be great."

I take a seat at one of the stools at the counter, pulling out my newest read. It's _Lolita _again, the last time I read it I'd been so confused by the story's purpose that despite my irrevocable hatred towards it, I might as well figure it out. I figured I'd read it again, no sense in wasting a perfectly good book because of ignorance.

"My brother's obsessed with that book," suddenly says a voice from down the counter a stool or so, and much to my surprise, there is a girl is looking at me.

It's the same blonde girl who answered Ezra's door.

At first I'm too shocked that she's speaking to me to say anything- there's been an almost paradigmatic shift in her personality. The sour girl I'd encountered a few days back has disappeared, and has been replaced by an outgoing, seemingly content one.

She's dressed again in an untidy outfit, a pair of jean shorts and bikini top covered by a white, oversized T-shirt. She's wearing a pair of muddy high tops on her feet. Her messy blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail, and from what I can see, she's not wearing any makeup. Her big blue eyes are pretty without it, however.

"I'm reading it for the second time. I can't will myself to understand it." My fingers delicately graze over the cover. "What does your brother think of it?"

"He likes it. Why would he be obsessed with it if he didn't like it?"

_There's that attitude._

"You live on my street, don't you?" I decide to change the conversation, biting at my thumbnail.

The girl looks away, gulping silently. She seems off-put, as if my question were something offensive. Just when I think she isn't going to answer me, her head turns and she nods.

"Yeah, I do."

"You're-"

"I'm Hanna." Her pretty blue eyes are as hard and as cutting as diamonds. "And you're Aria."

"Yeah," creeped out, I glance at the door, plotting my escape just in case. How does she know my name?

And then it clicks. She must be Ezra's sister.

_Keep talking to her_, my inner voice says, the temptation of a way to get closer to Ezra tugs on my vocal cords.

Before I can say anything else, Ms. Pinty suddenly comes out of nowhere, placing a big bowl of turkey soup in front of me. My stomach growls on command. I'd forgotten how hungry I am.

"Can I get anything for you dear?" The silver haired woman asks Hanna then, to which Hanna's blue eyes widen even bigger.

"Um, I'll just have a water for now," her hand nonchalantly slips into her pockets, and she pulls out a crumbled dollar bill and two quarters. "Maybe a muffin, please." Ms. Pinty nods and disappears again.

"Do you come here often?" I return my gaze to Hanna, trying to restart the conversation. She shakes her head.

"I was- out, and I just saw it on the way. You?"

"My mom used to take me here all the time when I was little." I look around to the artwork on the walls, staring at the painting of the cityscape that fascinated me when I was little. "It was kind of like a tradition."

Hanna gets quiet again, folding her hands. "That must be nice."

"What?"

"Having traditions with your mom."

I observe her, watching as she runs her quarter back and forth across the countertop. I wonder is she's alright- and if she and Ezra even have a mother.

"It's not. My mom gets on my nerves."

She sighs.

I begin to eat my soup, savouring the delicious flavour of the broth. "I don't see eye to eye with my mother, she's- _materialistic_. I'm not."

That catches Hanna's attention.

"I think materialism destroys people," she says abruptly, tapping her fingers against the table. "I think that having everything blurs all ties to appreciation."

"Me too," I look at Hanna, watching her carefully. She seems much smarter than she lets on, as if she were trying to hide it. "I think that people are ruined by the idea of fortune. Of fame. The greatest writers, composers- they're the ones that died before their work got celebrated."

Hanna stares at the counter. "The more you have, the less you have."

It takes me a moment to understand what she means, but when I finally do, I nod my head in awe. "You're right."

It doesn't take me long to finish my soup, and all the while Hanna and I carry out our conversation. It's pleasantly surprising just how much we have in common. We are both narcissistic assholes, essentially. But Hanna's opinions are much like my own, and I hope that something develops of this friendship. Not just to get to her brother, but because I am in desperate need of some companionship other than my mother.

Ms. Pinty comes back to collect my empty soup dish and Hanna's muffin plate, and without even asking I order two ice cream sundaes.

"I hope you like fudge," I say, half giggling. Hanna looks at me funny.

"You really didn't have to do that, Aria," she says guiltily.

"Don't be ridiculous. I wanted to." Finally Hanna smiles, and I decide to take the opportunity to ask to hang out sometime. I feel like a dude cruising a girl at a bar. Only, cruising a friend with an ice cream sundae. "You know, we should hang out sometime."

Hanna's face suddenly wrinkles out of the smile and the once Cheshire grin is replaced by a stern frown. I guess the lack of social skills is hereditary.

"Is this about Ezra?" she knits her eyebrows in accusation, glaring at me. "I thought he told you to stay away from us."

"No!" I try and will her to stay, but god forbid a rational conversation. "Hanna this has nothing to do with him."

Her face softens, but she doesn't sit back down. "I'm sorry Aria. You seem like you're a _really_ cool person, but we can't hang out. We can't be friends. Just leave me, and Ezra, and the rest of us alone, okay? It's in everyone's best interest."

She leaves then, her crumpled dollar bill sitting on the counter behind her. By the time Ms. Pinty comes back with our sundaes, I'm too disappointed to eat it, and two hot fudge ice creams go to waste.

My bedroom is lonelier than ever tonight, and my stomach bubbles in sadness as I lay pitifully on my floor. My journal is crumpled and laying on the floor before my closet, my books are knocked over and Ezra's two letters are sitting in a shredded pile, nothing left of them but what could be confetti.

My mother still isn't home, regardless of the fact it's a Thursday. She left a message on the answering machine, but I haven't listened to it. I don't care where she is, to be quite frank. Maybe I'm just meant to be on my own forever.

My dark hair is fanned out around my head, catching dust from the wooden grooves in my floor. I'm too mentally exhausted to even want to move, to want to clean up the mess I made whilst irrationally lashing out. I'm at the I'm-so-pathetic-that-I-need-to-be-miserable-and-listen-to-Christina-Perri-all-night stage, and all I want right now is a tub of mint chocolate ice-cream and a hug.

Eventually, my playlist runs out of songs and switches to Jay Z, the heavy pounding of the bass and- um, _empowering_ lyrics motivating me enough to sit up. I sigh heavily, having enough moping, and sweep up the letter fragments and dump them into the trash. Next goes, with a great deal of spite, my still shiny copy of Lolita and a scattered muffin paper.

_I spit on thee, Ezra Fitz. _

When I'm done cleaning my mess, I ceremoniously swing the small trash bag over my shoulder and parade my way out to the garbage can outside.

The night is gloriously festooned with bright clusters of stars and humming fireflies, the air steamy but cool, lifting a weight off my tired shoulders. I love the peace of the night, the way it feels when the word is all so far away. It makes you feel invincible- like you're the only one to know the very beauty of existence. In the night I'm wrapped in my own little infinity of bliss.

My head turns in the direction of his house, a sigh passing my lips. I just wish I knew what was going on with that family- why they had to act so, for lack of a better term, socially inept. I have to stop worrying about them though, as of now, they were the pinnacle of my misery and being so adamant on obsessing further into their personal lives was anything but healthy. It occurs to me that perhaps my nosy lifestyle itself isn't healthy.

After a few more moments of stargazing, I decide it's probably the right time to listen to my mother's voicemail. As I turn the the house, something catches my attention from down the road- the whirring sound of multiple, noisy engines. They're too loud and growly to be the engines of cars or any form of standard motor vehicle, and a crease of concern forms across my forehead. Off-road machines are prohibited in residential areas, they're dangerous and damaging to the roads.

Dumbfounded, I stand at the edge of the road, watching in anticipation. The engines grow louder, nearing my street. Angrily, I pay my pocket for my phone, but it occurs to me I left it inside my house.

All at once I see them, three bright sets of headlights shining like auroral spotlights down my dark street. The engines grow louder and louder, the machines coming closer and closer to me, and still I'm too dumbstruck to move. I just watch as they, now identifiable as three small quads come to a screechy halt; and by the time the traction of the tires kicks in the three automobiles are stopped directly in front of me.

It happens too quickly to register. Off two of the quads leaps two athletic female figures, faces covered by theatrical Halloween masks. I don't even have time to see the masks or to run away, and forcefully, I'm grabbed by the shoulders and constrained. There's chatter, maniacal laughter- I try to struggle away but there's no use- these people are quick and strong, impossible to fight against. More laughter. More struggle. I try and scream but a forceful knock to the ribs beats me to it.

"We aren't gonna hurt you," says a familiar voice, which only ensues the panic further. "Chill out and enjoy the ride." More laughter, and I feel like I'm going to vomit.

It's then when I realize what's happening- just in time as the thick hood covers my head.

**I would advise you put in headphones and watch Bastille's video for the song "Laura Palmer." Great song, and ****very**** relevant video. It played a big part in developing this story. **

**What do you think is going to happen to Aria?! **

**REVIEW AND YOU'LL FIND OUT SOONER :) **


	5. 5 : The Beautiful Strangers Society

**Hey.**

**I have no excuse as to why this is so late. I could say school, which is true, but honestly this chapter was a challenge to write. I knew exactly where it was going and what had to happen, but it just couldn't get it down. It wasn't working. But here it is, finally.**

**It's about to get into the story, and let's just say from here on out this story is going to become very ezria. I'm really excited, and the updates won't take as long. I promise.**

**Without further delay, chapter 5!**

5

_The people up top push the people down low_

Perhaps this is the world's way of telling me to mind my own business.

Perhaps this is not the time to be smart-assed.

My heart slams itself into my rib cage so hard that there's a deep, ghastly ache in my chest. My arms and legs twitch against the restraints that bond them together, trying so hard to break free. The adrenaline is absolutely nauseating, my stomach churning more and more with every passing second. I hate this feeling, and I have never wanted to be home more in my life.

The motorbike that I'm on rocks with the motion of the rough terrain we are travelling on, the contents of my stomach swishing around inside me. Whoever is driving this thing doesn't care for a settled stomach, and the fact that my eyes are covered by the musty hood makes me even more queasy.

Suddenly, the person behind me who is driving the bike leans forward, too close to my shoulder for my liking. However their closeness is not menacing; it's almost like an attempt at being comforting, and through the sound of the obnoxious motors I hear the words, "no one's going to hurt you."

The irony gods are laughing at me.

My eyes squeeze shut and a tear flows down my cheek. A vivid image of my mother falls into focus, the clarity sprouting from the adrenaline, and it dawns on me I haven't yet listened to her message. I can't help but feel sympathy for my mother at this moment; the only daughter she's ever had really sucks at being a daughter, and has already in seventeen years almost died twice. And is now riding hostage on a motorcycle to god-knows-where.

I don't remember signing up for the adrenaline-junkie club. I have always been captain of the lets-do-stupid-things society but this- this is too much.

I hear some kind of yelling, and then with a spontaneous jerk the motorbike screeches to a halt. My body flies forward, but is caught by a firm hand.

Arms practically lift me from the bike and I find myself on the ground again. For a second I think I'm going to double over and heave into the bag over my head, but with the solid ground's stability, my equilibrium is repaired and the nausea diminishes a little.

Hands on my shoulders start pushing me forwards, as if to tell me to walk. I decide to cooperate. My feet cross something rather crunchy, probably gravel, and then I'm instructed to step up. I hit the feeling of hollow wood, as I move forward I realize I must be indoors. A new panic swells up inside of me and another tear falls from my face. There's more hushed talking and laughter.

I'm pushed into a seat. My hands tremble. My brow sweats. Is this the end?

"Welcome to hell!" An excited female voice laughs. It's familiar-

And suddenly, the hood is ripped completely off my head and I find myself staring into the face of Hanna.

Hanna, as in Ezra's sister Hanna. Antisocial Hanna. _Completely bat-shit-out-of-her-mind Hanna._

The panic in my gut is suddenly replaced by confusion and anger. My heart is still beating wildly, my teary eyes bugged out of my head, and I'm still nauseous from the adrenaline. Hanna, as well as two other strange girls stand around me, all laughing and high-fiveing as if nothing were out of the ordinary at all. A part of me wants to scream, another part wants to throttle them all.

"Hello, Aria," Hanna says nonchalantly, still smiling. I blink incoherently, traumatized. "You can calm down now."

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" I scream, tugging at whatever sort of material has my wrists bound. "What the HELL is so messed up in your brain?!"

Hanna laughs, and my blood boils. "Consider yourself privileged," she whispers, and one of the other girls, a tall, skinny brunette slips behind me and unites my wrists. "You have just successfully been adopted."

My breathing is still escalated, although the panic has dimmed a little. We appear to be inside some sort of shed, boxes of clutter and random junky crap lying all around us. The place has a foul, musty smell, as well as a dingy lighting. There's a wire of old white Christmas lights stapled all over the walls and ceiling. Broken beer bottles, soda tins and gasoline cans litter the floor, and a half empty box of saltines sit on a shelf.

"Okay wait," there's a sharpness to my voice, and I yank my arm away as soon as the girl finishes untying me. "What the hell do you want from me!? Because right now I'm _really_ close to calling the cops."

Hanna, despite the ridiculous situation, has the audacity to roll her big blue eyes at me. "Can you breathe, please?"

"No, I can't!"

Hanna and the other girls wait a moment, exchanging glances as if they're completely sane.

"Okay," Hanna says, suddenly grabbing ahold of an empty milk crate. She sits down on it in front of me, staring intently at my face. "Perhaps our little introduction was a tad too dramatic for your unsuspecting mind."

"Dramatic?!" My mind spirals with a plethora of alternative adjectives. "Try fucking _traumatic_."

Hanna rolls her eyes again. "Okay, whatever floats your delicate little boat."

I glare at her. My chest is still heaving.

"Regardless, I figured that a _traumatic _welcomingwould perhaps help to convince you of the graveness that is our-" she looks at the other two girls for a moment, "committee."

My eyebrows sink into a v.

"I like you a lot, Aria Montgomery," Hanna says sternly, and for a moment the uneasy feeling in my stomach shrivels away to make room for the sense of satisfaction to swell. And I hate myself for it. Hanna continues. "I like what you're about."

"You don't even know me. You didn't want to get to know me, remember?!"

"I know _of_ you. And I know you're someone just like us."

"Sorry, you must be mistaken. I'm not crackbrained."

"Neither are we," Hanna smiles. "But we both act purely on impulse.

"Aria," she stands. "I would like to introduce you to Spencer and Emily. Spencer," she points to the skinny, mousy girl, "my cousin. And this is Emily," the other girl is tall and beautiful, very athletic. "She's- not my cousin.

"I'm not trying to rush anything, but does this little rendezvous have a point? Or can I go home?"

"We would like to invite you to join the Beautiful Strangers Society."

I almost gasp out loud. "Excuse me?" As much as I don't want to admit it, I find myself somewhat pleased for being invited. I open my mouth to say something else, but before I have the chance the shed's doors are swung open and a curly-headed boy storms into the small space.

"Hanna-" says the familiar voice, and suddenly his eyes meet mine, and I'm staring directly at a very concerned looking Ezra Fitz.

"HANNA!" he screeches, grabbing me strongly by the shoulders and onto my feet. He shoves me behind him, lividly glaring at his sister. "What is wrong with you?!" He turns to me then, eyes wide, and grabs ahold of my wrist. They're sore from the ropes that held them together, and at my wince he slackens his protective grasp. My arms tingle at his touch. I'm still to disoriented to react.

"Did you hurt her?! _Did you hurt her_?!" He throws himself in Hanna's face, and his sister merely rolls her eyes again, unaffected.

"No, you big loser." She swats his face away.

"I thought you'd be cool with the idea of letting her join," says the mousy girl, Spencer.

Ezra glares at her. "I told you all to leave her _alone_!"

"Christ," Emily spits at him. "Do you really think we're ever going to listen to anything you say?"

Suddenly, I see the common denominator between myself and these girls. I finally feel safe again with Ezra standing before me, and I get the idea they honestly never set out to hurt me. Perhaps they really are just dramatic- dangerously _epic_, even. A wave of curiosity seethes past my fear.

_The Beautiful Strangers Society. _

"Ezra," I whisper hurriedly, "it's okay. They didn't hurt me."

Hanna looks at me funny. "You changed attitudes pretty quickly."

"Come with me," Ezra says to me quickly, sending Hanna another icy look. "I'm getting you out of here, and I'll deal with you three later."

Guess what Hanna does.

Ezra tows me through the shed and all the way outside, walking in a brisk, long-strided pace that has me hobbling to keep up. Through the soft glow of the streetlights, I find we are in some sort of junkyard. All around are piles of metal, demolished cars, tires, gas cans, beer bottles and fenceposts- the shed in the middle. The quads and motorbikes are abandoned beside it.

Once we are a safe distance from the shed, Ezra stops and turns me to face him. He is breathing heavily, and in some sort of frenzied panic he checks me up and down.

"Are you okay?" He takes my arm and stares at the blistered skin of my wrists, grazing his thumb gently over the welts. "Please tell me you're okay."

"I'm fine." I snatch my hand away, remembering I'm supposed to be angry with him. But it's a hard thing to do, stay angry at someone like Ezra. He stands towering above me, breath gently fanning my face. His eyes are crystalline blue, even in the dark.

"This is why I told you to stay away," he almost whimpers, looking at me for another few seconds before turning his head. "I never wanted anything like this the happen to you. I didn't want you tangled up in my life." His words sting a little.

"You think I'm too good for this? You think I can't handle myself?" I challenge back, crossing my arms defensively.

"Aria-"

"What are the Beautiful Strangers?" I interrupt, my pulse picking up speed from being so near him. "I think you owe me some explanation."

He looks at his feet, realizing he's hit a dead end. He can't keep it from me any longer.

"Welcome to my sister's gang," he says softly.

"_Gang_?"

He sighs softly.

"My sister has always been trouble, Aria, mainly due to the fact that my mother was never around to steer her away from wrong. Hanna is bitter. She's spent her life running away from who she can become, because she's so mad at the world for the crappy place she was born into."

His gaze is smouldering, brooding. My heart yearns with the urge to kiss the worried crease from his forehead.

"My mom left us a few years ago, and we didn't have anyone. No money, no way to support ourselves. I was sixteen at the time, Hanna was thirteen, but we were both hardened enough to have managed to get on our feet and do what it took to survive."

"I'm sorry," I whisper softly.

"It's not your fault," he replies, looking at me tenderly. "Our uncle helped us out, that's Spencer's father. But then he died. This is-was his junkyard.

"About a year ago, Hanna started getting out of control. She was shoplifting almost everyday, and I knew it was only a matter of time before she got caught and our independent lifestyle was shut down. I tried to confront her one day, and she- she got hysterical. I've never seen her so angry, so upset. It took hours to calm her down.

"I was hurt by how she hurt. Hanna is so good at closing everything out, sometimes you forget she's even human. I only wanted her to open up, to bleed a little, but she wouldn't have it. She told me she was going to avenge herself and everyone like her; she was going to exist for everyone who doesn't exist." He shakes his head. "She doesn't realize that what she does is immoral. Wrong. She's so drunk on the idea of revenge that she thinks it's right.

"Spencer has always hid in Hanna's shadow. She has Hanna's back with everything. Emily, she isn't related to us, but she's always been around. The two of them follow Hanna like ducklings, and together they started the 'Beautiful Strangers'.

"They're crazy, Aria. They steal, and break and enter, and they _harass_ people they don't like! They do terrible things and they're convinced it's right!"

A knot forms in my throat. Ezra runs his fingers through the dark waves of his hair. "I want to just run away from this, to stop being a part of it."

"Why don't you?"

He pauses, wounded and beautiful. "She's the only family I've got. I want to fix her, not abandon her."

My mind floods with an idea. My senses flood with life. "Maybe I can help you."

Ezra shakes his head in protest. "I told her to leave you alone. I didn't- don't want you to get sucked into this, I didn't want this for you-"

"Why are you so worried about me?" I blurt out, cutting him off. He looks horrified, then guilty, then sad. "It's annoying."

"It's- it's complicated, Aria."

"Complicated?" I repeat. "Ezra, I think you should realize by now I like complications."

"You like _thrill_," he corrects, looking at me so intensely it makes me uncomfortable. "You like danger. You like things that scare you into remembering you have a pulse, things that distract you from the boring world outside your head." He takes a step closer to me. "So why do you think I'm so concerned about you? You're the only constant thing that's ever been in my life and I'm going to protect that for eternity."

Chest heaving, he suddenly realizes everything he's said, and takes an abrupt step back. I stand, open mouthed, eyes welled up with tears and tired heart beating relentlessly inside its cavity.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, shaking his head again, looking anywhere but my eyes.

"It's not your fault," I repeat his words from before.

He looks at me again, the sadness in his eyes traceable from a million miles away. How long has he been alone in this sad place?

"I have an idea," I whisper softly, eyeballing the shed in the distance. Dark silhouettes dance in the windows, but no one has left it yet. "Maybe I can help you."

"I'd prefer it if you stayed away, Aria-"

"It's not going to work, Ezra," I snap defiantly. "You can either let me help you with your guidance, or you can let me walk into traffic. Take your pick."

"What's your idea?"

"Let me help you get closer to Hanna. I'm a girl, I know how girl brains work. Maybe I can help put some sense into her." Ezra seems to like the idea. Well, he doesn't seem to hate it at least. "I could help you start shutting down this gang from the inside out."

For a moment he doesn't react, but then nods his head. "Do you think it could actually work?"

"Anything's possible," I mutter.

"Just- _please_ be careful Aria." There's a look of fear on his face. "My sister is dangerous. I could forgive myself if something happened-"

"Nothing's going to happen," I decide to be daring, and reach towards him to lay a hand on his shoulder. However, he jerks his body away at my touch, alarmed. Rejection rushes over me.

"I'm sorry," I blurt, disoriented, beginning to walk away. "I'm sorry I just, it's better if you don't- Aria?"

"Yeah?"

"Just promise me you'll remember this has never been the life I want."

I nod my head, not really understanding what he means.

After another minute we begin walking back to the shed, my hands absentmindedly rubbing at my blistered wrists. Do I really know what I'm getting myself into? Is Ezra Fitz really the person I want to be getting mixed up in?

There's just something about this beautiful man that I can't help but want to fix. There's so many unanswered questions about him, so many things I want to help him through. If getting close to his sister is my only way to weasel into his mind, then maybe I need to do this. Maybe leaving this behind me isn't even an option.

Ezra gently ushers me into the shed, to where Hanna, Spencer and Emily are sitting on the floor, cutting up magazine pages. At my presence, Hanna carelessly tosses her scissors to the floor and stands up, crossing her arms.

"So how many prerequisites did my brother walk you through?" She sends a nasty glare Ezra's way. "Or do you want to have an independent decision and become a part of something epic?"

Hanna's eyes are so beautiful that it's hard to see how she could be dangerous.

"When can I start?" I ask, and Hanna's mouth curls into a sinister grin.

"You've made a wise decision, Aria Montgomery. I think you're going to fit right in here."

I nod my help and gulp nervously, exchanging one last quick glance with Ezra. Even though this is territory I'm walking into blindly, there's a sort of reassurance I get from being near him. For some reason, I get the feeling that Ezra isn't going to let anything happen to me.

_"The only constant that's ever been in my life."_

My own mouth curves into a smile. Maybe this won't even be that bad. For the first time in a really _long_ time, I'm actually _accepted _into something. For the first time I have someone I'm actually willing to do whatever it takes to help. And even though this situation is ridiculous beyond compare, it feels like an adventure. It feels as though I've finally found a place I can be as curious as I want.

Hanna glances at Ezra again, ruefully, as if she's already onto us. He takes another step closer to my body, in a way of protection, and my heart fizzes in a lovesick stupor.

No, this isn't going to be bad at all.

**So team Ezria has begun! Do you think Hanna's going to catch on? I hope this chapter made up for the wait.**

**Drop a review! I love hearing what you have to say. Until next update!**


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